


Everything That Hurts Drops Off

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: True Love or Something [22]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Minor Allura/Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “Hi.  Why isn’t there a bag in the kitchen trash can?”“I needed somewhere to throw the toaster when it caught on fire.  A trashbag would have melted.”“Okay, babe.  Follow-up question: why is the toaster on fire?”“I…don’t know?  It was working this morning.”They take a long moment to stare at each other and then, as one their heads swivel to the dumbwaiter and they both shout: “PIDGE!”A series of super-short scenes and snippets - adventures in daily domesticity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE. Seriously, I go back and re-read your comments whenever I'm feeling stressed or down and they make me happy all over again. You all keep me motivated to keep writing this silly AU :) 
> 
> I was suffering from some writer's block so I had my bestie text me a bunch of random words and I used each of them as a prompt for a little mini-fic (hence all of these ficlets). I'll probably do more of these in the future, they were fun. Just fyi, they aren't interconnected beyond all taking place in this AU. There is no larger story arc here, it's just ficlet fun with prompt words. Some Welcome to Night Vale fans might recognize some of my prompt words from A List of Things from an early WtNV episode ~

**Monopoly**

            “How are you so bad at this game?” Lance asks Keith, both bewildered and two seconds away from cackling at the angry little line between his husband’s brows as Keith stares down the board.

            “Fuck capitalism,” is Keith’s only response, although Shiro mouths “feral desert child” behind him while pointing Keith’s way really extravagantly.

            “Yeah, but even you have to have grown up with…money and stuff?”

            Keith gives him a look, “I think Pidge is stealing from the bank.”

            “Hey!” she yelps in protest, “I am doing no such thing! Besides, I’m on the other side of the board from the bank.”

            “Because you used to steal from the bank,” Hunk mutters under his breath, letting out a small ‘oof’ when Pidge elbows him.

            “No one is stealing from the bank,” Allura says serenely (she would know, she is the bank this game – everyone else was deemed too irresponsible or too nice to do the job) “And Matt, no, you can’t draw a dollar sign on a sticky note and hand that to me.”

            “I’ll accept your IOUs, Matt,” Lance says generously as Keith squawks in protest.

            “Okay, but how the fuck are you doing better at this game than me?!”

            “Life is full of mysteries, babe.”

            Keith declares bankruptcy next round and spends the remainder of the game invading Lance’s personal space (cool), throwing popcorn at Shiro (hilarious), and muttering angrily about capitalism into his vodka.

...

**Okay**

            “LANCE, WHERE THE HELL IS MY TRAVEL MUG?”

            “WHY WOULD I KNOW?”

            “YOU LIVE WITH ME!”

            Lance sighs and gets off Hunk and Pidge’s couch, if only to stop his husband from shouting to him through the open dumbwaiter. He saunters over to lean against the wall, peering through his side of the dumbwaiter, practically nose to nose with his slightly disheveled-looking husband. Disheveled is a good look on Keith.

            “Hi.”

            “Where’s my travel mug?” Keith demands because apparently he is not in the mood for polite greetings.

            “Which one?” This is a reasonable question (if a little obnoxious) – Lance is pretty sure Keith has more travel mugs than actual dishes. When Lance first visited Keith’s half of the duplex his then-boyfriend only had one cup, one plate, one bowl, one fork, one spoon, a hunting knife, and _nineteen_ travel mugs and four water bottles. Lance isn’t convinced Keith even _knew_ nineteen people at that point.

            Keith has more real-person dishes now (although Lance had to seriously talk him into acquiring more than one more set of silver/dishware) but his army of travel mugs seems to have only swelled in size to counter it. Ironically, he only ever uses one of his many, many mugs – unless it is somehow incapacitated (read: accidentally stolen by Lance ONE TIME because it was DARK and he wasn’t LOOKING when he grabbed a travel mug off the counter on his way to work). It’s a point of pride to Lance that this One True Mug is one he gave Keith way back when they first started dating.

            (Their first Valentine’s Day was stressful, okay? Keith is really weird about holidays and Lance is just sort of a spaz about gift-giving and they had only been together a month. Lance is very, very proud that his first Valentine’s Day gift to Keith is still in use today.)

            It’s a red travel mug with ‘World’s Okay-est Boyfriend’ on it in big block letters. Keith loves the stupid thing for no godly reason. He carts it to the theatre every damn day, despite having an actual, porcelain mug waiting for him at the tech table. It was very hard for Lance to steal it this time.

            Keith is unimpressed with Lance’s prevarication.

            “Oh, you mean this one?” Lance holds up the mug he’d stolen that morning while Keith was in the shower.

            Keith gives him a sour look, “Yes, that one. Did you really have to – wait, why is there gaff tape on here? Why are you stealing my gaff tape again?”

            “Just look at it,” Lance rolls his eyes.

            Keith hmphs, but actually reads what’s on the tape. When he looks up his face has softened considerably. In fact, on a normal human that look might even be described as ‘sappy’.

            Lance tentatively grins at him. “I fixed it!”

            Keith smiles indulgently at him. It’s a rare expression and it never fails to fill Lance with warm fuzzy feelings. “I could have just gotten a new one if it bugged you.”

            “Yeah, but this one has _history._ ”

            Keith rolls his eyes, “Way to make it weird.”

            “You love it.”

            “Yeah, I do.” And then they’re both leaning in and they’re kissing and despite the discomfort of the dumbwaiter digging into his ribs, the warm fuzzy feelings in Lance’s chest are multiplying exponentially, like tribbles.

            Keith’s travel mug doesn’t read ‘World’s Okay-est Boyfriend’ anymore. Now there’s a piece of white tape over the ‘boyfriend’ part and _someone_ (Lance, it was Lance) wrote ‘husband’ in its place with black Sharpie.

…

**Risk**

            “Hey, no team-ups! I call foul!” Pidge protests.

            “Want to team up with me?” Matt offers, fiddling with his lone remaining piece on the board nervously.

            “Hell no, they’ve already annihilated you.”

            “Yeah, face your utter destruction like a man,” Lance says, despite only having Australia left. He’s not sure how this game went south this quickly, but he’s pretty sure it’s not going to end well for him.

            “Big talk for the guy about to get his ass kicked,” Pidge snarks.

            Hunk, who has already lost all his territories and military, nods sagely from where he sits, braiding Allura’s hair, “Yeah, you’re next. Pidge and Allura are too entrenched.”

            Lance moans dramatically, batting his eyes at Keith, “You’ll spare me, right, babe?”

            Keith gives him a flat look, “Australia’s mine.”

            Lance makes a whale-noise very reminiscent of his sisters’ angsty preteen years. “Noooo. Don’t you love me?”

            “All’s fair in love and war, Lance,” Shiro says, not unkindly, as his and Keith’s forces continue their systematic domination of the board-game globe.

            “I’m looking forward to when they inevitably turn on each other and their regime falls to infighting,” Pidge says, peering consideringly at the arrangement of her forces in Russia.

            “Russia changed you.”

            “In Soviet Russia, Russia changes you!” is her only response.

            Lance goes back to moaning dramatically and making eyes at Keith as he tries to retain control of Australia.

...

**Toaster**

“Keith, babe, what’s on fire?”

            Dead silence and then “…Nothing…”

            “Keith?” Lance runs into the kitchen to see Keith, his husband, the light of his life…standing on the kitchen counter, glaring down at the sad remains of what was once a perfectly ordinary toaster. It lies, sparking and quietly smoldering, in the kitchen trashcan.

            “Hi,” Keith says and he looks quite a bit like a cat that has broken a vase and a rule or twenty and just got caught. Their actual cats, thank god, seem to be steering clear of the madness in their kitchen.

            “Hi. Why isn’t there a bag in the kitchen trash can?”

            “I needed somewhere to throw the toaster when it caught on fire. A trashbag would have melted.”

            “Okay, babe. Follow-up question: why is the toaster on fire?”

            “I…don’t know? It was working this morning.”

            They take a long moment to stare at each other and then, as one their heads swivel to the dumbwaiter and they both shout: “PIDGE!”

…

**Applesauce**

            “He’s just…staring at it.”

            “Okay?”

            “Like, is that normal?”

            “For people to look at the food they eat? Yes, Lance, it is.”

            Lance glares at the phone as if that might somehow enable Shiro to see the look on his face without Facetime. “I don’t know what to expect here!”

            Shiro sighs on the other end of the line, “I’m not actually an orthodontist, Lance. I have no idea what people recovering from dental surgery do.”

            “Weren’t you there when Keith got his wisdom teeth out?”

            “No, he still has all of his.”

            “Oh, great, that’ll come back to bite us someday.”

            “The joys of no insurance.”

            Lance sighs, “Sorry, Shiro. That was mean of me. Just…he’s so…docile. It’s really creeping me out. I mean, it’s Keith, so he’s not exactly the life of the party, but he’s typically more…present than this. I thought Keith on painkillers would be funny but it’s actually just low-key terrifying.”

            “Lance,” Shiro says, and he sounds so infinitely patient, “Keith staring at applesauce is fine. Keith refusing to eat applesauce is fine. Keith plus applesauce is 100% fine. I know it’s…unsettling not to have him fully present, but you only need to get concerned if he seems to be in respiratory distress or involuntarily unconscious. Those are signs of an allergic reaction. Okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “What’s he doing now?”

            “Stabbing the applesauce repeatedly with a spoon.”

            “You might want to give up on applesauce.”

            “Yeah. Thanks, Shiro.”

            “No problem.”

…

**Hazelnut**

            It’s Lance’s fault this happened.

            It all started at a coffee shop.

            “What the hell even is a hazelnut?” he’d asked absently, skimming the list of syrups.

            “A nut,” Keith had said because Keith is very literal sometimes.

            And Lance had rolled his eyes and said; “Sounds fake, but okay.”

            He is seriously regretting those words. Because if there is one thing he knows from loving and living with Keith Kogane is that the bastard never backs down from a challenge. And apparently Lance’s hazelnut quip resonated deep in the wild wilderness of Keith’s brain as some kind of insane _challenge._ And now every goddamn thing in their kitchen is some variety of hazelnut-flavored. A printout from the encyclopedia Britannica’s website featuring their entry on the hazelnut is taped to the fridge. Keith has taken the time to place tiny labels (damn him and his label-maker) on each food item’s packaging denoting it as ‘hazelnut – ’ something.

            Hazelnut – eggs.

            Hazelnut – cheese.

            Hazelnut – whole grain bread.

            Hazelnut – hamburger.

            The creamer is actually hazelnut flavored and it’s honestly pretty good. Lance actually impressed with how far Keith was willing to go for the sake of this prank.

            Keith wanders into the kitchen, aggressively casually, the cats on his heels, the way he does when he wants to look like he’s ‘just around’ but actually wants to smugly observe the results of his handiwork.

            “You know,” Lance says as he measures out sweetener from their ‘hazelnut-sugar’, “It’s a good thing I know you so well.”

            “Why’s that?” Keith is looking very, very smug. The fact that Ruby has hopped up on the kitchen counter beside him and is also looking at Lance smugly, her little kitten tail twitching just reinforces the image.

            “Because I speak Keith-speak well enough to recognize this as one of your weird courtship rituals instead of a stunning display of passive-aggression.”

            Keith beams at him, “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

            Lance rolls his eyes, “I’m inundating you with puns for a week.”

            Keith just keeps grinning, the adorable asshole.

            “A month. A month of punny misery for you and your hazelnuts.”

            “Love you too.”

            “Want some hazelnut coffee with hazelnut creamer?”

            “Oh, no, I hate hazelnuts. I just wanted to prove they existed.”

            Lance isn’t sure why the easy way Keith says this is so damn _hot_ but there he is, in their kitchen, hair sleep-tousled, beaming like a kid on Christmas over a silly prank that actually inconveniences him more than Lance and it’s just too much.

            “Get over here and let me kiss your stupid face.”

            “Ew, you’ll taste like hazelnuts.”

            “Pucker up and deal, you started this.”

…

**Mystify**

            They’re lying in Keith’s bedroom, under the carefully constructed constellations on his ceiling.

            “Tell me something I don’t know,” Lance whispers into Keith’s shoulder. They’re lying on top of the covers, loose and lazy. The room is muggy, the air heavy with New York summer. It should be uncomfortable, lying together this way, and in some ways it is, but the ways its good outweigh the ways its bed and they stay put.

            Keith hums deep in his throat, drawing designs Lance’s skin, fingertips dancing across his back, ducking over the rocky outcroppings of his shoulder blades, skimming across the hills and valleys of his spine, mapping an invisible landscape across flesh and bone. “I put the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling before I bought any other furniture for this house.”

            “Really?” There’s no judgment in Lance’s voice. Maybe some other time, some other place, there would have been, but as they are, here in this in-between world of softness and warmth there’s no room for playing at insincerity.

            “Yeah. I never…I never had a room as a kid. I never had a space that was mine; that I could make my own. And when I lived with Shiro we were in this studio apartment and I was sleeping on a couch and the space was all _our_ space. I was at home there; I just didn’t have my own space to do whatever I wanted with. So when I moved in I just kind of…snapped. I was standing in the middle of the living room and Shiro was going on an on about buying furniture and shit and I was like ‘I want sticky-stars’ and he stared at me and I was just like ‘that’s the thing I want. I want glow in the dark stars on my ceiling’.”

            Lance smiles into Keith’s shoulder, pressing his face close so Keith can read the expression. “That’s really cute.”

            “Yeah, well, I spent hours making sure all the constellations were there so you’d better appreciate it.”

            Lance holds Keith impossibly closer and laughs and laughs.

…

**Cuttlefish**

            They’re playing the game of Life now and everyone regrets this decision.

            “I don’t want to get married,” Pidge protests her next ‘life event’, “I don’t need no significant other!”

            “If I pull that card can I just move to Lance’s car?” Keith asks, “He has the better job anyway.”

            “I think this game is giving me an existential crisis,” Matt complains.

            “It’s giving _you_ an existential crisis?!” Lance yelps, “I keep having to pay from random shit! Aw, hell no, I am _not_ having a mid-life crisis, put that rule back where you found it, devil-game!”

            “I have to adopt a pet?” Allura reads off, “Hmm, okay. I would like a cuttlefish.”

            “A what?” Lance asks even as Hunk exclaims, “Awesome! Shut up, Lance, they’re beautiful creatures.”

            “Can you keep cuttlefish as pets?” Shiro asks the room in general.

            Allura shrugs, “According to my career card I’m a marine biologist. I do what I want.”

            They’ve all drunk enough wine that this statement seems very, very funny. Funny enough to skip next turn completely and google cuttlefish pictures instead.

…

**Lark**

            They wake up to birdcalls.

            “I’m gonna murder Pidge,” Lance groans.

            “No court would convict you,” Keith agrees.

            From somewhere in the basement come the echoes of distant birdsong, sounding more and more sinister with each repetition.

            “I can’t believe she taught her robot to _whistle._ ”

            “ _Birdsong_.

            “Babe, this is way too Hunger Games for my comfort.”

            Keith cracks an eye open just to peer at him, skeptically, “You couldn’t even get through the fist movie. After Rue died you refused to watch any more. Same with the books.”

            “Okay, that was an emotionally devastating scene for literally anyone with a little sibling or a _soul_ , babe. And I know enough to recognize the whoo-woo-WHOO whistle bird-thing from the franchise.”

            As if it can hear their conversation, Rover’s birdsong intensifies.

            “That’s it,” I’m getting Pidge.” Keith swings himself out of bed decisively.

            “No murdering our friends!”

            “The robot is not in that category.”

            “Oh, then go ahead an rip it’s voicebox out. I mean, Pidge might murder you but…”

            Keith stares at Lance flatly but he does have a point. Sort of. Half a point. Keith climbs back in bed and drags a pillow over his head.

…

**Lurk**

“We are not staking out Shiro and Allura’s first date.”

            “But – ”

            “No.”

            Lance sighs melodramatically and flops backwards into Keith’s lap. He folds his arms and frowns once he gets there. “In the _Parent Trap_ they observed the dates.”

            Keith just pets his hair. “Shh, I know.”

            “So can we?”

            “No.”

            “So when you said ‘I know’ you really meant ‘I, no’?”

            “Give up while you can still pretend to be ahead," Keith advises. 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU GUYS! I love hearing from all of you!!!
> 
> More ficlets! Yay! It's been a long day, I just didn't have the attention span to work on a real fic with plot. So have more of these dumb little things. Same deal as before; I got a friend to send me a list of random prompt words and I wrote a ficlet about each of them. 
> 
> The 'Laser' section is loosely based on real rehearsal room shenanigans, although I have never met a director who has made their stage manager participate in the warm ups, although I've known a few who'll extend the invitation to the SM (stage manager/management) team to join in if they want. 
> 
> Just a heads up, I haven't edited any of this, I'm just too tired. Sorry if anything's glaringly wrong or if these aren't as good as usual. I tried. *shrugs*

**Everything That Hurts Drops Off – Part 2**

**Robert**

            “Pidge, you need to come upstairs.”

            “No.”

            “Pidge, you need to shower and eat something.”

            “Optional.”

            “Pidge, guess where the shower is? Upstairs. Where you need to go, like, right now.”

            “Hunk,” Pidge peers at him disdainfully over her glasses – but hey, at least she’s looked away from…whatever it is she’s working on, “I’m _working_.”

            “Yeah, no, I think at this point you’re just in a Red Bull-induced fugue state. You’re worse than Zombie Keith. And Zombie Keith has actually fought people for touching him.”

            “Uh, I’m pretty sure normal Keith’s done that.”

            Good, great, she’s talking; they’re _conversing_. Awesome. Now he just needs to lure her away from the laptop and the pile of…seriously, what is she making? “Oh definitely. Shiro says he’s been arrested three times.”

            Pidge rolls her eyes, “Only one of those was for fighting.”

            “Wait, _you_ know the Keith-got-arrested stories? _Lance_ doesn’t even know the Keith-got-arrested stories.”

            Pidge shrugs, “Uh, I kinda know everything.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “Did what?”

            “You didn’t…hack in…anywhere?”

            She huffs, “No, I asked Shiro. He’ll tell you anything if you ask nicely.”

            “Huh. Never actually thought of that. He’s kind of intimidating.”

            She rolls her eyes, “He’s such a Dorky Dad. Oh my god.”

            “Yeah, okay, but still. An intimidating Dorky Dad.”

            She shakes her head, “Whatever, man, just let me get back to work.”

            Okay, new tactic, she’s turning back to the laptop. “Soooo, what’re you working on?”

            “I’m making a friend for Rover.”

            Great, now there’ll be two of them. Hunk isn’t sure if that’s exciting or terrifying. “Cool, what’s his or her or their name?”

            “Bob.”

            “Seriously?”

            She glares at him.

            “Just, you’re making an super-awesome robot and you’re naming it _Bob_?”

            She shrugs, “I like Bob. No one names anything ‘Bob’ anymore. It’s become like a stereotype of itself. But I like it; it’s nice and simple. So I’m bringing Bob back.”

            And now she’s rambling about the name ‘Bob’. At least it’s not peanuts. She’s definitely exhausted and Hunk, as patient as he is, is running out of options. “Pidge, you know you’re my best friend and I hate to do this to you.”

            She just sort of grunts absently at him, already swigging Red Bull and hammering away at her laptop keyboard again.

            “But I’m gonna do what Keith told me to do in situations like this.” And with that he scoops his tiny – and furious, ouch, those little fists _hurt_ – roommate up in a fireman’s carry and hauls her, kicking and protesting, over to the dumbwaiter, “Time to go upstairs and be a person for a while. Then you can go back to making Bob.”

            Hunk is very glad they modified the dumbwaiter a while ago, otherwise there’s no way he and Pidge would both fit. As things are, it’s still _very_ tight and she definitely elbows him in the head at least once.

            The things he does for his friends.

…

**Anglican**

            “Are we supposed to stand up now?”

            “Keith, for the last time, no.”

            “I don’t know how church works.”

            “Just trust me on this, you will know when to stand up.”

            “I didn’t know the last time we were supposed to stand up.”

            Oh yeah, Lance had to elbow him repeatedly to get him on his feet. Oops. “Stop worrying about it, babe. It’s just a wedding. You really only need to stand up if the bride’s on the move.”

            “Church weddings seem very complicated,” Keith observes, squinting at where the happy couple play the repeat-after-me game with the minister.

            Lance eyes his cousin and her husband-to-be; they seem happy. At least less nervous than they did at the rehearsal dinner last night. “Yeah.”

            “Glad we skipped that.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you agreeing or do you just want me to shut up?” It’s actually pretty ironic Keith is asking this in the first place. Normally it’s Lance chattering and Keith being monosyllabic.

            “Agreeing. I mean, Lucy and Jarvis – ”

            “Jarod.”

            “What?”

            “His name’s Jarod.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “I memorized all your cousins and their significant others’ names in preparation for last Christmas.”

            Lance stares at his husband’s profile and isn’t sure if the warm feeling in his chest is fondness or the burning desire to laugh at this adorable dork’s idiosyncrasies. It’s mostly fondness, he’s pretty sure. Tempered with a little internal snickering.

Lance is pretty sure his great-aunt from his mom’s side is side-eyeing them from a few pews over. Apparently whispering explanations of the goings-on through the ceremony is frowned upon. Literally. She’s frowning pretty intensely. Lance just grins and laces his fingers with Keith’s.

“Still glad we did Vegas,” he tells his husband.

Keith nods and squeezes his hand. He’s still kind of tense, though, like he’s anticipating having to leap to his feet with the rest of the audience.

“I’m pretty sure the bride’s not gonna make a break for it, babe. You’ll know the next time she goes down the aisle way in advance.”

Keith gives him a look out of the corner of his eye like ‘you don’t know that’. He relaxes a tiny bit, though when Lance starts stroking the back of his hand with his thumb so there’s that.

They watch Jarod kiss the bride and the couple takes their sweet time walking back down the aisle. Keith stands up on time and looks way too proud of himself for it.

It’s really very sweet.

…

**Pheromone**

            Lance is squabbling with Nyma over which of them is more attractive. Which, frankly, is pretty typical of them during the slow times at work. Nyma is basically Lance’s opposite – she’s the Community Center’s Adult Programming Coordinator, which sounds vaguely dirty but basically just means she organizes a lot of auctions and rummage sales and bingo nights. She’s pretty in a tall, Amazonian way, with sun-bleached hair in two improbably high ponytails that make her look more like a character in an anime than a real human. Lance spent his first month working here trying to convince her to go out with him. Needless to say it didn’t work and what had begun as inept flirtation has faded into a kind of sniping camaraderie that’s actually way more fun.

            “Face it, Ny, I am incredibly hot.”

            “You’re a seven at best.”

            “Lies, foul lies.”

            She rolls her eyes, “Hmm…forgot to factor your personality in…I think that bumps you down to a four.”

            “WHAT, RUDE!” he gasps dramatically, “Well, _you_ , Miss Superior, are a _three_.”

            They’re both lying, that’s part of the game. She doesn’t even fake being offended, though, just laughs, “Whatever, Four.”       

            “You take that back!”

            “Nope,” she sing-songs. Seriously, at this point it’s like having a Work-Sister. Which is totally unfair. He has Real-Sisters, and Pidge, who is basically a Home-Sister. He does not need a Work-Sister.

            “I have…I dunno, _pheromones_ or something. I’m very alluring.”

            “Oh, _alluring_.”

            “Yeah, _alluring_.”

            Of course, Keith, being the Best of Husbands; picks that moment to wander in. He’s tapping away on his phone one-handed, Lance’s lunch tucked under his arm (Lance must have forgotten it this morning again.)

            “Ha! There! Evidence that I’m alluring!” Lance declares, pointing dramatically at Keith, who looks up momentarily, a furrow between his brow; mouth set in the ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about but you’re about to drag me into it, aren’t you?’ line. “Babe,” Lance calls, “Explain to this ignorant cow – ” Nyma actually laughs out loud at the insult, “that I have many alluring qualities!”

            Keith raises an eyebrow, and says, completely deadpan, “Meh, I’d date you,” before going back to his phone.

            Lance fake-gasps dramatically, “WE’RE MARRIED, YOU JERK!”

            “Huh,” Keith says, walking over, handing over Lance’s lunch and absently kissing him on the cheek, “Guess I underestimated your allure.”

            Nyma is wheezing by now, she might actually be in respiratory distress she’s laughing so hard. “Oh my god, that was _perfect_.”

            Lance pouts at Keith until his husband gives him a real kiss. Before he pulls away completely, Keith whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, you’re a ten. Just don’t tell Nyma. It’s a secret.”

            And then he’s walking off, the stupid attractive jerk and he’s already at the door before Lance collects himself enough to yell; “That line doesn’t even make any sense!” at his back.

            Keith just laughs.

…

**Halter-top**

            “I need help.”

            “Hi there, babe, how’s your day going? Mine is fine, thanks for asking,” Lance says lightly, working very hard not to laugh at Keith growling under his breath on the other end of the line.

            “Lance.”

            “Yes, o light of my life?”

            “I need help.”

            Lance decides to quit needling Keith while he’s ahead. “Okay, what do you need help with?”

            Keith breathes through his nose and Lance can imagine him running through Shiro’s meditation exercises in his head. “One of the actresses left a ‘pink halter-top’ at the theatre and it’s disappeared, possibly into costume storage.”

            “Okay, and?” Lance really isn’t sure where he comes in here.

            Silence as Keith convinces himself that asking for help with something simple isn’t going to trigger the end of everything as we know it. “I don’t know what a halter top is,” he finally admits, “So I’m just looking for a shirt that’s, and I quote, ‘mostly pink but with a few other colors too, like some orange and turquoise’. Do you know how many shirts fit that description?”

            “Okay, babe.”

            “A LOT OF SHIRTS, LANCE. IT’S A STUPIDLY COMMON COLOR SCHEME.”

            Lance doesn’t think it is, but he’s not ready to tell that to a freaked-out Keith. “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute, I’ll help you look.”

            “ _Thank you_.”

            “Why didn’t you just google ‘halter top’? It’s actually a pretty common shirt cut, you’ve definitely seen it before; you just didn’t know what it was, probably.”

            “I tried, the pictures all looked different.”

            “Okay, I’ll be right over. If we both get stuck we can call one of my baby sisters, okay?”

            “You’re the best.”

            “I know. See? I’m Han-Soloing _you_ now!”

            “That’s not how it – you know what, whatever. Just come help me.”

            “On my way, babe.”

…

**Marmalade**

            Lance glances at Laz where she lies; curled up on top of the pile of wool that was once the last little bit of a ball of marmalade-colored yarn. “You’re going to look great, Laz,” he informs her, finishing off the last stitch.

            She blinks lazily but doesn’t resist when he scoops her up and puts her on the couch next to him. She flails a bit once she figures out what he and the marmalade-colored yarn are doing, but settles down once he lets her go. He was right. She does look great.

            He snaps a pic to send to Hunk. Then snaps a few more for Shiro and Allura.

            “I’m thinking black yarn for your sister,” he says consideringly, “So she and Keith can match.”

            “Keith match what?” Keith himself asks from the doorway as he walks in, dumping his messenger bag as he goes, “Are you talking to the cats again?” he asks as he walks into the living room, stopping just short of the couch and staring at what he sees, blinking owlishly. “Did you…make a tiny _sweater_ for your _cat_?”

            “Our cat, and yes!” Lance grins, scooping her up and holding her out to Keith, “Isn’t she the cutest?”

            “You made…a sweater…for your cat…”

            Laz bats a lazy paw at Keith’s chest. She really doesn’t seem to mind the sweater, which is pretty surprising, really. Ruby’s probably going to shred him when he tries to put hers on, but it’ll be worth it. “Laz likes it.”

            “She has fur, why does she need a sweater?”

            “It gets cold in the winter! And look how cute she is!”

            “You made tiny clothing for your cat because of aesthetics.”

            “I blame Pinterest, really.”

            Ruby picks that moment to wander into the living room, spot Keith, mew a greeting and try to climb up his leg. He picks her up only to have her launch herself back out of his arms again, hissing, when she sees the sweater on Laz. She then bolts down the hallway, claws skittering on the floor. Keith watches her go before slowly turning his head back to Lance, who’s gathered Laz close to his chest and is scratching her ears, assuring her that her sister’s just being a meanie.

            “You are not putting a sweater on my cat,” Keith says flatly.

            “That’s what you think.”

            “No. You’ll end up in little bitty pieces. No sweaters.”

            Lance pouts, “She’s just jealous,” he assures Laz.

            Keith sighs, “That’s one way of putting it.”

            Lance eyes him, “Does _somebody_ want a sweater?”

            “No,” Keith says flatly.

            “All I hear is ‘Lance, love of my life, please make me a sweater so I can match our very fashionable cats’.”

            Keith sighs resignedly and Lance cheers. Sweaters for _everyone_.

…

**Hardware**

            “I needed tape and a stapler, how did we end up with three lamps and a doorknob?” Keith eyes their cart skeptically.

            “Hey, babe, I think we should get some spray paint,” Lance calls from the next aisle over.

            “ _Why_?” Keith is in the middle of asking when he hears Pidge shout “Hey, Hunk, we should get a compound miter saw!”

            “You don’t need a chop saw!” Keith shouts in her direction.

            “Ooh, no, nix the miter saw, lets go for a metal chop saw!” Pidge sounds way too excited.

            “Hey, babe,” Lance’s voice interrupts again, “We should get another microwave. Ooh! Or a toaster oven!”

            “No – we don’t need another microwave! Pidge, no saws!” Keith just wanted some glow tape and a stapler. Not even a staple gun. Just a stapler.

            “Hey, Keith, if hypothetically, I wanted to perhaps purchase a new oven/stove combo?”

            Keith gapes at him, “ _Hunk_.”

            “I’m just saying, if that, perhaps, happened, would there be enough room in your car for it or would I have to pay extra for delivery?”

            Keith wonders what would happen if he just left these idiots here to fend for themselves. Probably terrible things. But it would almost be worth it. He has a new sympathy for Shiro.

            A clatter sounds a few aisles over, “PIDGE, LANCE, YOU HAD BETTER NOT BE FIGHTING WITH PIECES OF PBC PIPE!”

            Yeah, he definitely has new sympathy for Shiro. He’s never letting them tag along on a Home Depot run ever again.

…

**Laser**

            Lance has never been happier to follow Keith’s coworkers on social media. “Pidge, Hunk, come look at this!” he yells through the dumbwaiter.

            His friends come over, Hunk slowly because speedy Hunk is not, and Pidge even more slowly because Pidge is a little brat. Eventually they make their meandering way over to where Lance has pulled up Twitter. He holds out his phone, biting down on a snicker as Pidge and Hunk peer at the screen.

            On said screen is a Tweet from one of Keith’s Assistant Stage Managers.

**New Director making SM do actor warm-ups #murderface #lol #sofuckingfunny #grumpycatkeith**

            Below is a photo of Keith, hair pulled sloppily back, dark circles curving under his eyes, giving the camera a dead-eyed stare. It’s actually a screenshot from a Snapchat and the caption is just ‘Stage Manager had to do actor warmups #grumpycatkeith’. Apparently ‘grumpy cat Keith’ has become something of an internal meme for the theatre. Lance approves. Lance may have started it.

            There’s a follow-up Tweet with video of the actors going through their vocal exercises and energy exercises and general silly pre-rehearsal flailing. It looks really fun. Lance catches a snippet of the director saying “Okay, now imagine a laserbeam, you are the laser, you are focused, powerful energy – ” before the video cuts off. The entire time Keith looks halfway between laughing incredulously, running away, and just lying on the floor in a contrary heap.

            “Oh my god,” cackles Pidge, “Has Keith started rage-texting you yet?”

            “Oh yeah, he’s pissed.”

            “Those exercises look like fun,” Hunk, perpetual ray of sunshine, offers, “Unless you’re Keith and have a job to do and hate looking ridiculous in public. Then no, definitely not fun at all.”

            Pidge snickers, “I need to keep this forever.”

            Lance nods solemnly, “Oh definitely. This is perfection itself.”

…

**Pepper**

            Lance likes moments like these, when it’s just the two of them. They don’t have to talk – despite what everyone says, Lance can be quiet. He even likes it sometimes. It’s…nice to just be quiet with someone. Not all the time, but sometimes. In little ordinary in-between moments like this one where it’s just him and Keith in the kitchen at the end of a long, lazy Sunday. Lane is slicing up bell peppers and Keith is cutting up mushrooms and there’s nothing to it, really. Lance is humming a song and Keith is humming the harmony and they’re both a little off-key and neither of them is a great cook so the fajitas they make tonight might be a little burnt in places, but this, this is good.

            They’ll eat the fajitas anyway, burnt or not. They’ll sit at the table or maybe on the couch, or maybe on the floor, leaning against the couch, and maybe the tv will be on in the background but mostly they’ll be talking and eating their mostly-okay food.

            They won’t need to touch but body parts will wander into personal space, elbows brushing, feet tapping against each other, a steady in and out of ‘hey, I’m still here, are you?’

            And at the end of the night Lance will suggest they just leave their plates in the sink and Keith will refuse and will wash everything on principle and make Lance dry the dishes and put them away as he hands them over, soapy and slick. And then they’ll go to bed, topple into their mattress, tangle in their sheets, in each other, in the warmth of another human being. And there will be no rush to anything, not really, because they’ve been here before and they’ll be here again and here is very, very good. Here is home.

            And the sun will have gone down, slow and warm, hours ago and they’ll lie still in the dark and whisper secrets to each other that only matter because they haven’t been spoken before this moment. And eventually they will sleep, breathing each other’s air and soaking in each other’s warmth and all will be as it should be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH FOR YOUR COMMENTS!!!
> 
> Just a head's up, there's a brief mention of 'tech riders' in here. A tech rider is a document touring theatre companies have prepared to share with their hosting theatre so that theatre knows what to have ready for them. The cliche of celebs demanding only one color of M&M in their dressing rooms started as a way to test a theatre on its adherence to the tech rider. Little fiddly things like that were snuck into the riders and if they were still done a stage manager could rest easy, knowing everything was taken care of.

**Everything That Hurts Drops Off – Part 3**

**Apricot**

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

At what point is it appropriate to kill interns?

**To: KEEEEEITH**

Never

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

Are you sure?

**To: KEEEEEITH**

Keith.

Babe.

No.

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

You don’t even know what they did.

It could be terrible

It was terrible

**To: KEEEEEITH**

Don’t make me call Shiro

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

He’s not the boss of me.

**To: KEEEEITH**

No, I am.

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

ajsdjkhgiaufh

Sorry, laughing, typed nooosense

*nonsense

(still laughing)

**To: KEEEEEITH**

You’re mean.

Why did I marry you?

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

Unrestricted access to my hair

And my cat

And my car

Yours sucks

**To: KEEEEEITH**

YOU TAKE THAT BACK ABOUT MY CAR

And your hair isn’t thaaaat great

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

I know, I don’t get why you like it so much

**To: KEEEEEITH**

I do not have a thing for your hair

It’s more of a general…

…thing…

…for you.

Shut up.

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

I think my cold dead heart melted a little

Nope, just burned my esophagus

Coffee

Hot

Fuck

Pain

**To: KEEEEEITH**

Who the fuck texts ‘esophagus’?

And are you ok????

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

Still murderously angry

Damn interns

**To: KEEEEEITH**

What did they even do?????

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

…they stole my apricots…

**To: KEEEEEITH**

CORRECTION

YOU STOLE THE APRICOTS

THOSE WERE IN THE KITCHEN

FOR SHARING

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

…Keith is unavailable at this time

Leave a message at the tone

**To: KEEEEEITH**

UGH

KEITH

I HATE YOU

(jk, love you, babe,

but QUIT STEALING THE GOOD FOOD, JERK)

…

**Jeep**

            “Remind me again why we’re washing Hunk’s car?” Lance asks from where he sits on the driveway, supposedly rinsing suds off the tires, but actually trying to see how many times he can splash Keith with the hose while his husband’s back is turned.

            “Shhh,” Pidge shushes him from where she sits, perched on roof, haphazardly shoving suds around with a sponge, her eyes actually fixed far off in the distance.

            Keith, literally the only one of them who is actually trying to wash the Jeep with any kind of commitment, stage whispers, “What’s happening now?”

            “They’re on the kebabs.”

            “I still think it’s hugely unfair that Hunk’s doing this without us,” Lance complains.

            Pidge and Keith give him near-matching flat stares. “You put marshmallow fluff, peanut butter, and nutella on a waffle yesterday, sprinkled it with graham cracker crumbs, folded it in half and called it a ‘s’more taco’,” Keith says. This is true. “And ate it in one bite.” This is also true.

            “And it was delicious!” Lance points out (correctly), “I mean, I’m not a culinary genius like Hunk, but I could be there for moral support!”

            “Just be glad they’re letting us help taste-test stuff when they’re done,” Pidge advises.

            “But I want to beeee there,” Lance whines. Keith throws a sponge at his face, presumably to stop the embarrassing noises coming from said face. Lance turns on the hose on him full-blast in retaliation.

            Keith makes a grand show of being unbothered by the onslaught of water, “Ahhh, refreshing,” he says, face set, eyes glinting, daring Lance to contradict him.

            “The mating rituals of the exotic subspecies Klance in the wild…” Pidge mutters from the roof of the car.

            Keith walks over to Lance, retrieves the sponge he just threw and chucks it at Pidge this time. She squawks in protest, but ultimately catches it and refuses to give it back. “Quit it, children – ” that’s rich, considering she’s younger than they are – “They just plated the kebabs, now they’re on to burger prep.”

            “I want a kebab!”

            “I want my sponge back.”

            Pidge spares them a glance, “There are two types of people…”

            “What kind of burger is Hunk making?”

            “I want my sponge back.”

            “Looks like classic beef and cheese, but he’s doing that thing where he folds the cheese up and puts it in the middle of the patty so it’s all molten when you bite into it. Ooh, and he’s mixing a little bit of ketchup and steak sauce in with the ground beef, good choice, good choice…”

            Lance rolls his eyes, “Quit acting like a foodie, Pidge, you have an alphabetized list of favorite take-out places taped to the fridge.”

            “I have a whole index. Pros, cons, specialties, what to avoid. You have to put effort into it.”

            Pidge gives them an incredulous look, “Let me get this straight, Lance is making fun of my takeout needs and Keith’s making fun of them not being…organized enough? And Keith, what the fuck, get off the Jeep roof, the roof is mine.”

            “I want my sponge back,” Keith proves this point by taking said sponge and jumping off the roof and into a crouch on the driveway.

            “You do know the car-washing thing’s not real, right?” Lance says, poking Keith in the soggy shoulder, “We’re not actually washing Hunk’s car, we’re watching his grill-off with the new neighbor.”

            “No reason not to actually wash his car while we’re at it.” And Keith goes back to doing just that as Pidge narrates.

            “Ooh, he’s put the first patties on…and he’s toasting the buns, good choice, good choice.”

            “Seriously, Pidge, you know nothing about food. Why are you our lookout?”

            (Of course, when Hunk returns home triumphant, carrying serving dishes full of delicious grilled goodness, he absolutely _beams_ at the sudsy mess of them as they try to hastily dry off his Jeep – which simultaneously makes them feel like the best and worst friends on the planet. Hunk is too good, too pure.)

…

**Sheep**

            Moving in with Keith shouldn’t have felt as momentous as it did. The process had really begun months ago, with Lance’s possessions slowly migrating their way through the dumbwaiter and into Keith’s half of the building, never to return. Lance himself had been sleeping in Keith’s bed, using his toothpaste, eating breakfast, lunch and dinner in his kitchen for what felt like forever by the time they actually made cohabitation official.

            But a few things had stayed back, lingered in Lance’s old room pre-move. Silly little things; mementos mostly. The kind of things you keep close but don’t really _use_ anymore. It was very…final, packing it all up, even if it was just to slide through the dumbwaiter.

            He remembers going through one of those boxes, sitting on the living room floor, looking for something. Whatever it was wasn’t ultimately important, but it feels like a loss to forget it. Keith came up behind him, peering over his shoulder in that curious Keith way of his.

            (Sometimes Keith will just watch people going through the motions of daily life with this curiously blank look on his face, like he’s trying to make sense of the behavior of an alien species, like he’s not quite part of the world and is trying to search out the place he fits. Sometimes Lance will take his hand and sometimes Keith crosses his arms and his body language closes and all Lance can do is just stand in Keith’s orbit until his space cadet is willing to come back down to Earth).

            “What’s this?” Keith had asked, pulling something soft and half-forgotten out of the box and holding it up.

            Lance chuckled, cobweb emotions clinging, the feelings Lances past might have felt about this moment – the ghost of teenage Lance’s embarrassment, the phantom thrill of little kid Lance’s pride. Adult Lance’s response is more measured, more in time with the moment. “It’s a plush sheep,” he said lightly.

            Keith had rolled his eyes – Lance could tell, but still handled the kid’s toy (cheap, the fluff pilling, the stitching on the face frayed, the whole thing a slightly different color than it had been new and clean) with exquisite care. “I mean why do you have it?”

            “When I was seven I had to get my appendix out and I was really freaked out about the anesthesia. I was making myself hysterical; the doctors couldn’t get me to calm down enough to prep me for surgery. I mean, I was a wreck, little kid, appendicitis, I was sick and scared and my mom was trying so hard to be tough, but she was crying too – she’s a sympathy crier – and my Mama was running all over the place trying to keep my sisters in line. And I guess she missed one because Val snuck down to the gift shop and spent all her allowance on this little plushie sheep. And she marched right back up to my hospital roof, shoved it in my arms and said ‘it’s just like going to sleep, see, there’s a sheep and everything. Now stop crying. It’s loud.’ Val was taking none of my melodramatic shit. Still one of my favorite memories, though.”

            Keith had nodded, eyes thoughtful and distant, “That’s…sweet. That’s really nice.” And he’d pulled one hand away from the sheep to loop around Lance’s waist, leaning in to kiss his cheek before dropping his chin down to hook over Lance’s shoulder. “I’m glad you had that.”

            “Yeah, me too. Family has its moments, huh?”

            Keith had pressed him smile into Lance’s shoulder but nodded all the same.

…

**Fairytale (Keith’s Parents)**

            He always knew loving Diana Kogane was temporary. She told him that herself that first desert night they met. She told him a lot of things, and she was almost always right; he didn’t not believe her. He just wanted to believe something else too. He wanted to make a Schrodinger’s cat out of their relationship. Is it alive or is it dead? You’ll never know until you open the box. And of course they did at some point; they had to. It’s human nature to open boxes full of disaster.

            But even while he knew there was no good end to this, that loving Diana Kogane was like loving a desert – impossible, punishing, rich in secrets and mystery and full of unanswered questions – he still liked to imagine a world where maybe it wasn’t so improbable. A world where they could continue walking through the desert together indefinitely.

“You know what your problem is?” she’d said once. He’d been trying to draw her but only half-heartedly. She kept moving, too much for pencil and paper and he didn’t have the will to try to fight nature just to capture her image at the moment.

“No, but something tells me you’re about to answer that question,” he drawled, crooking a smile in her direction when she grinned her sharp-edged grin back at him. There was something jagged and almost too-bright about her. Like a crystal hanging in a window on a summer day; you can’t help but watch it, you can’t look away, but it burns you just the same.

“You,” she explained, walking over and plopping into his lap like a cat presenting itself for petting, “Are a failed fairytale prince.”

“What?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, “You’re waiting for a dragon to fight. No one told you all the dragons are extinct. We turned the Enchanted Forest into a parking lot, or however that song goes.”

“Paradise.”

“What?” “The song, it’s ‘paradise into a parking lot’,” he hummed a few notes and she laughed.

“Yeah, that. You’re too late. There’s nothing to fight and the damsel already saved herself.”

“I wouldn’t want to save the damsel.”

“Oh, so you’re a progressive prince. Or just a dick,” she teased, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, like the sun and the shadows.

He shrugged, “Seems like an unequal division of labor.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, the princess and I can fight the dragon together. Screw chivalry.”

“You want backup. To fight your dragon.”

“Uh, your dragon, princess. You came up with this twisted metaphor.”

She threw her head back at that, laughing and laughing, sunlight licking its way up the column of her throat, shadows catching on the tendons of her neck.

She was right about that, there was no space in the world for him; he was too late. Or maybe the world he was meant for never existed in the first place. But maybe she was out here in the desert with her trailer and her scanners and cobbled-together equipment because there wasn’t a space in the world for her either. And maybe for now they could occupy the same space together.

At least until the box was opened and Schrodinger’s cat went free.

…

**King**

            Keith gives in and opens the dumbwaiter when the incessant pounding on the other side gets to be too much. “What?” he demands when he’s greeted by Pidge’s slightly manic grin.

            “Lion King marathon, bitches.”

            “Are you high?”

            “Oh please, Pidge is nothing like that when she’s high,” Lane comes up behind Keith and hooks his chin over his husband’s shoulder to stare at their neighbor, “I should know, I had to wrangle the two of you after the pot-brownie fiasco.”

            “Those were good brownies,” Pidge says reflectively while Keith grimaces.

            Hunk appears behind her, wearing oven mitts, “I would like to take this moment to point out that _my_ brownies are delicious _without_ controlled substances.”

            “He says pot would ruin the flavor profile,” Pidge says with a shrug, “Fine by me, those may have been good brownies but being high was really annoying. All my math was shit. My drunk math is way better.”

            Lance just shakes his head, “Whatever, weirdo. What’s this about a Lion King marathon?”

            “Yeah, get over here, we’re watching cartoon lions act out Hamlet. It’s perfect – juvenile enough for Lance and Shakespeare-y enough for Keith.”

            “I would take offense to that,” Lance says, “but I really like Lion King. I’m in.”

* _Four Hours Later_

            “Dude, Kovu in Lion King 2 _is_ Keith. Look, they even have the same hair,” Hunk points out.

            “Oh my god, I can never un-see that,” Lance says, gaping at the screen.

            “Does that make Lance Kiara?” Pidge wonders from her blanket-nest on the floor.

            “Hey, I am fine with being the plucky heroine of this adventure. But this makes you guys Timon and Pumba.”

            “Wait,” Keith undercuts the rising tide of conversation, “Does this make Shiro Scar? Because that’s too on-the-nose even for me.”

            “Ewwww…begone you pun-slinging blight!” Pidge flicks soda in his general direction like its holy water or something.

            Lance and Hunk are too busy choking on laughs to comment.

…

**Field Trip**

            This is bad. Keith can’t find Pidge or Hunk. He was gone for five minutes. He told them to stay in the lobby, to not wander off. What are they, Doctor Who companions? ‘Don’t wander off’ is the simplest of simple instructions! _Kindergarteners_ know what ‘don’t wander off’ means. It means that when your dear friend Keith, who is graciously giving you a ride because your cars are both in the shop, needs to stop by work for five seconds to pick something up, you heed his advice and _stay in the goddamn lobby._

            He ends up searching the building.

            He finds Pidge first, in the booth, bugging the sound crew. Not ideal, but he trusts the sound guys will keep her from electrocuting herself or ruining several thousand dollars’ worth of equipment. (She’s having great fun actually; they have a new program called the ‘dehumanizer’ where you speak into a microphone and the program turns your sounds monster-y, they’ve all been taking turns playing with it all week, since the sound designer brought it in.)

            Hunk is both harder and easier to find. Harder in the sense that it took longer to search him out and easier in that once Keith is in the general vicinity he can follow his friend’s voice to the scenic studio, where Hunk sits on the floor with the technical director and head of props, fiddling with some sort of contraption.

            “Seriously?” Keith demands from the doorway, “I gave you both _very simple instructions_.”

            Hunk looks up, “Oh, hey Keith. Check out this thing we’re building, it’s gonna be super cool!”

            The TD and Props Head are both beaming in that scary way that means they want to try something new and complicated. Keith stares at the three of them, a feeling of defeat and resignation seeping into the pit of his stomach.

            “We’re not leaving for a few hours, are we?”

            “Well…” Hunk hedges.

            Keith holds up a tired hand. “I’ll be in my office.”

            There’s a reason Keith didn’t babysit in high school.

…

**Quiet**

            “What’re you doing?” Keith asks – maybe, it’s hard to tell; his face is buried deep in his pillow.

            “Go back to sleep, babe.”

            “No.”

            Lance chuckles and rests his chin on Keith’s back, one hand still tracing abstract patterns over his skin. “Stubborn.”

            “What’re you doing?”

            “Drawing on you. In permanent marker. You’ll never get it off.”

            “Liar.”

            “Meanie,” Lance pinches the closest bit of skin, right over Keith’s ribs, humming in displeasure at how prominent the curves of the bones are, “You’ve lost weight.”

            “Always do when we tour a show.”

            “S’not healthy.”

            “Better than the alternative.”

            Lance flicks Keith between the ribs irritably, “I worry about you.”

            Keith squirms under his weight, apparently fed up with the pinching and flicking. But he’s too tired to do much and ends up flopping back in relatively the same position he started in, just closer to his husband. Lance curls around him accommodatingly, tangling their legs, stopping his fiddling and just letting his arm flop over Keith’s lower back. He rolls his head over so it’s now his cheek laying on Keith’s shoulder blade instead of his chin. He presses an absent kiss to the wing of bone beneath the too-tight skin and too-thin muscle.

            “Missed you,” he admits to the softness of skin, “the house isn’t the same without you around. It’s the wrong kind of quiet.” The wrong kind of quiet. It’s the sort of statement that doesn’t work in the daylight, it’s too poetic, too personal, to be said out loud. But here, in the soft, summer-night blue-light of their bedroom it makes perfect sense.

            “Missed you too,” Keith confesses, “I hate touring shows. I’m glad the company doesn’t do it much. If I never have to get into another fight about another goddamn tech rider every again I’ll die happy.”

            Lance snorts, “You like fighting people.”

            “Yeah, but fuck tech riders.”

            That’s enough to draw a real laugh out of Lance. “I do love your rage-texting.”

            “It’s simple stuff, it shouldn’t be this hard to get right.”

            “Shh,” Lance soothes, only half-sarcastically, dragging his fingers lightly over Keith’s ribs. On a normal person this would have started a tickle war or at least gotten a giggle. Keith is some kind of alien freak who isn’t ticklish. At all. Instead he sighs into the gesture, muscles practically turning to liquid before Lance’s eyes.

            Keith might be part cat.

            “It’s good to be home,” Keith says into the silence, “I missed you. And our bed. And our house. And our food. And our cats. But mostly you.”

            “I’ll let Pidge, Hunk, and your brother know that they’ve been bumped from the list.”

            “Fine. Them too.”

            Lance laughs again, cuddling impossibly closer, “Love you, babe.”

            “Love you too.”

            “Wow, no Han-Solo-ing?”

            “No, missed you too much.”

            Lance hums happily and they lie together, until they drift off or sunlight sneaks through the cracks of their blinds, whatever comes first.

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from 'Astronauts' by Rachel Platten


End file.
